His hair was as tousled as mine, much more so. I don’t know why God chose to give him and Cory such curly hair, when he gave Carrie and me only waves. And all boy that he was, he tried with mighty effort to brush out those curls, as I sat and hoped they would jump from his head over to mine.
I sat up and looked around this room that was, perhaps, sixteen-by-sixteen. Large, but with two double beds, a massive highboy, a large dresser, two overstuffed chairs, a dressing table between the two front windows, with its own small chair, plus a mahogany table with four chairs, it seemed a small room. Cluttered. Between the two big beds was another table with a lamp. Altogether there were four lamps in the room. Beneath all the ponderous dark furniture was a faded Oriental red rug with gold fringe. At one time it must have been a beautiful thing, but now it was old and worn. The walls were papered in cream with white flocking. The bedspreads were gold-colored and made of some heavy fabric like quilted satin. There were three paintingson the walls. Golly-lolly, they did steal your breath away! Grotesque demons chased naked people in underground caverns colored mostly red. Unearthly monsters devoured other pitiful souls. Even as their legs still kicked, they dangled from slobbering mouths filled with long, shiny, sharp teeth.
“You are now gazing on hell, as some might see it,” my know-it-all brother informed me. “Ten to one, our angel grandmother hung those reproductions herself just to let us know what we’re in for if we dare to disobey. Look like Goya’s work to me,” he said.
My brother did know everything. Next to being a doctor, he wanted to be an artist. He was exceptionally good at drawing, using watercolors, oil paints, and so on. He was good at most everything except picking up after himself, and waiting on himself.
Just as I made a move to get up and go into the bath, Christopher jumped from his bed and beat me to it. Why did Carrie and I have to be so far from the bath? Impatiently I sat on the edge of the bed, swinging my legs, and waited for him to come out.
With many little restless movements, Carrie and Cory fluttered awake simultaneously. They sat up and yawned, as if mirrored reflections, rubbed at their eyes, and looked sleepily around. Then Carrie pronounced in definite tones, “I don’t like it here!”
That was not at all surprising. Carrie was born opinionated. Even before she could talk, and she talked at nine months, she knew what she liked and what she hated. There was never a middle road for Carrie—it was down low, or up sky-high. She had the cutest little voice when she was pleased, sounding very much like a sweet little bird chirping happily in the mornings. Trouble was, she chirped all day long, unless she was asleep. Carrie talked to dolls, teacups, Teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Anything that sat and didn’t answer back was worthy of her conversation. After a while, I got so I didn’t even hear her incessant chatter; I just turned it off and let her rattle on and on.
Cory was entirely different. While Carrie chattered on and on, he’d sit and listen attentively. I recall Mrs. Simpson saying Cory was “a still water that ran deep.” I still don’t know what she meant by that, except quiet people did exude some illusion of mystery that kept you wondering just what they really were beneath the surface.
“Cathy,” twittered my baby-faced small sister, “did you hear me say I don’t like it here?”
Hearing this, Cory scrambled from his bed and ran to jump into ours, and there he reached for his twin and held her tight, his eyes wide and scared. In his solemn way, he asked, “How did we get here?”
“Last night, on a train. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“And we walked through the woods in the moonlight. It was very pretty.”
“Where is the sun? Is it still night?”
Behind the draperies the sun hid. But if I dared to tell Cory that,
I sat up and looked around this room that was, perhaps, sixteen-by-sixteen. Large, but with two double beds, a massive highboy, a large dresser, two overstuffed chairs, a dressing table between the two front windows, with its own small chair, plus a mahogany table with four chairs, it seemed a small room. Cluttered. Between the two big beds was another table with a lamp. Altogether there were four lamps in the room. Beneath all the ponderous dark furniture was a faded Oriental red rug with gold fringe. At one time it must have been a beautiful thing, but now it was old and worn. The walls were papered in cream with white flocking. The bedspreads were gold-colored and made of some heavy fabric like quilted satin. There were three paintingson the walls. Golly-lolly, they did steal your breath away! Grotesque demons chased naked people in underground caverns colored mostly red. Unearthly monsters devoured other pitiful souls. Even as their legs still kicked, they dangled from slobbering mouths filled with long, shiny, sharp teeth.
“You are now gazing on hell, as some might see it,” my know-it-all brother informed me. “Ten to one, our angel grandmother hung those reproductions herself just to let us know what we’re in for if we dare to disobey. Look like Goya’s work to me,” he said.
My brother did know everything. Next to being a doctor, he wanted to be an artist. He was exceptionally good at drawing, using watercolors, oil paints, and so on. He was good at most everything except picking up after himself, and waiting on himself.
Just as I made a move to get up and go into the bath, Christopher jumped from his bed and beat me to it. Why did Carrie and I have to be so far from the bath? Impatiently I sat on the edge of the bed, swinging my legs, and waited for him to come out.
With many little restless movements, Carrie and Cory fluttered awake simultaneously. They sat up and yawned, as if mirrored reflections, rubbed at their eyes, and looked sleepily around. Then Carrie pronounced in definite tones, “I don’t like it here!”
That was not at all surprising. Carrie was born opinionated. Even before she could talk, and she talked at nine months, she knew what she liked and what she hated. There was never a middle road for Carrie—it was down low, or up sky-high. She had the cutest little voice when she was pleased, sounding very much like a sweet little bird chirping happily in the mornings. Trouble was, she chirped all day long, unless she was asleep. Carrie talked to dolls, teacups, Teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Anything that sat and didn’t answer back was worthy of her conversation. After a while, I got so I didn’t even hear her incessant chatter; I just turned it off and let her rattle on and on.
Cory was entirely different. While Carrie chattered on and on, he’d sit and listen attentively. I recall Mrs. Simpson saying Cory was “a still water that ran deep.” I still don’t know what she meant by that, except quiet people did exude some illusion of mystery that kept you wondering just what they really were beneath the surface.
“Cathy,” twittered my baby-faced small sister, “did you hear me say I don’t like it here?”
Hearing this, Cory scrambled from his bed and ran to jump into ours, and there he reached for his twin and held her tight, his eyes wide and scared. In his solemn way, he asked, “How did we get here?”
“Last night, on a train. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“And we walked through the woods in the moonlight. It was very pretty.”
“Where is the sun? Is it still night?”
Behind the draperies the sun hid. But if I dared to tell Cory that,
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